The Best Laid Plans
by Lamiel
Summary: Just how does one surprise an Elf, anyway? A belated birthday gift for Ithilien. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Happy Birthday Ithilien! A belated bit of fluff to brighten your day.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No disrespect or infringement is intended. Just a bit of fun.

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**The Best Laid Plans**

by Lamiel

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Chapter 1

"A surprise party?" Aragorn's voice was laced with skepticism.

"Yes," Gimli said firmly.

"I don't know, Gimli. It's an interesting idea, but . . ."

"It's perfect! You've got all those mucky-mucks coming next week for whatever reason,"

"The Unification Conference of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth."

"Right." Gimli waved one hand absently. "So Legolas will be coming with a few of his Elves from Ithilien, and Faramir and Éowyn will be there, and Merry and Pippin and Sam –"

"Sam can't come. Rosie is due soon."

"_Again?_" Gimli stared at him. "How many have they had now?"

"Four. This will be the fifth."

Gimli shook his head. "All right. The point is, this get-together –"

"Unification Conference."

"Will be the first time we've all been gathered together since the end of the War. And Legolas' begetting day happens to fall right in the middle of it. There's no reason he'd suspect anything, since we're already here, and there'll be parties going on all over the place, so the preparations won't be noticed –"

"Gimli, that's part of the problem. We'll also have representatives from Dol Amroth and Rohan and your party from Aglarond, not to mention some dignitaries from Umbar and possibly even Harad." Aragorn sighed heavily. "I've had diplomats working out the details for months. It's an incredibly sensitive situation. The protocol alone is a nightmare. Just negotiating which tribal representative gets to sit next to me at the opening banquet –"

"That doesn't mean –"

"And then the Corsairs consider roast swan a delicacy, and that didn't go down well with the people from Dol Amroth –"

"But we –"

"So how I'm supposed to slip away for a private party in the middle of all of that –"

"Aragorn!" Gimli struck the king's laden desk with his hand, sending a cascade of parchments to the floor. "This is important!"

"And the Conference isn't?"

"No. I mean, yes, it is, but this is important too. You may not have noticed, but Legolas has been under a lot of stress lately. He takes the restoration of Ithilien far too seriously. And when he isn't staying up nights with those trees of his he's managing the details of his settlements, or negotiating between Gondor and Eryn Lasgalen –"

Aragorn rubbed his hands over his face. "I know, Gimli. I appreciate everything that he's done. It's just that right now may not be the best time."

Gimli sighed. "It's more than that. He's . . . he's getting twitchy."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "I had noticed that. I came up behind him in the library the other day and he threw a knife that missed my ear by half an inch." He paused. "You want to throw a surprise party for a twitchy Elf?"

Gimli waved a hand dismissively. "He can handle it."

"It was a very sharp knife."

"He missed you, didn't he? Then that was deliberate. But Aragorn, he spent a month at Dol Amroth last year."

Aragorn straightened. "What?"

"And what was he doing that you were able to sneak up behind him like that?"

"I wasn't sneaking. Kings don't sneak in their own palaces."

"He was staring out the window, wasn't he? More than that, he was staring at the river. At the gulls. Aragorn, he's getting worse."

Aragorn sighed. "Gimli, one day Legolas is going to sail over Sea. We have to accept that. We can't hold him here forever."

"That doesn't mean we have to sit back and let him go! He needs to be reminded of everything he has here. He needs to know that we care about him, and that we're here for him. Gathering all together on his begetting day will show how important he is to us. Plus it'll be a chance for our own celebration away from all the people. You know how much he hates big crowds."

Aragorn leaned back in his chair. He hated to admit it, but Gimli's idea was beginning to make some sense. Then a new thought occurred to him. "How do you even know when Legolas' begetting day is?"

Gimli smiled loftily. "I have my ways."

But Aragorn was frowning. "I'm not sure even he knows when it is. Mirkwood isn't like Rivendell. The Silvan Elves don't pay much attention to dates after the first couple hundred years or so."

"Never mind, Aragorn. You focus on your little gathering –"

"_Unification Conference._"

"And leave the party to me. I'll take care of everything."

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Legolas' collar itched. He stood absolutely still upon the dais at Aragorn's side with his hands folded behind him and smiled pleasantly at the various dignitaries that milled past, and concentrated hard on not ripping the maddening thing from his neck and throwing it to the ground.

The robe had been the cause of some contention between him and Irluin, his chief political advisor. Irluin had said that as the highest ranking Elf in attendance of the Unification Conference Legolas must dress in accordance to his station. Legolas had said that he preferred his usual hunting garb. Irluin had pointed out that Legolas would be representing all Elves in Middle-earth, and that this particular robe would bring out the blue of his eyes. Legolas had reminded him that he had represented all Elves in Middle-earth just fine in the Fellowship, when he had worn his regular tunic, and that the color of his eyes was absolutely irrelevant. Irluin had explained that he would be meeting Men who had never before seen an Elf, and that the silver edging of the robe's collar and sleeves would accent Legolas' circlet of office. Legolas had explained that he could not move in the robe and that he would vacation in Moria before he'd wear that accursed circlet again. Irluin had suggested that Legolas could write to Thranduil and give this reason for why he was attending the most important political gathering since the Council of Elrond in a travel-stained archer's tunic.

Legolas shifted his shoulders almost imperceptibly, trying to pull the intricately woven and extremely itchy silver collar away from his skin. He bowed to one of the minor dignitaries of the Corsairs' party and used the movement to conceal a quick tug at the fabric. Then he had to straighten quickly to keep the circlet from slipping down over his eyes. _That does it. I'm melting this yrch-spawned thing in the fire when I get back to my room._ Though doubtless Irluin would only produce another circlet or diadem or crown for him on the morrow. Legolas had contrived to lose or damage every device of office bestowed upon him since he had first taken his place in his father's court centuries ago, and Irluin had never failed to replace each one from a seemingly endless supply. Legolas scanned the great hall briefly. There was no sign of his hawk-like advisor. Perhaps, if he could just casually tip the circlet off and then kick it beneath Aragorn's chair . . .

"Aragorn!" Gimli's stentorian bellow sounded over the din of the massive crowd and interrupted the Elf's thoughts. Legolas exchanged a glance with the king as Gimli came forward through the forest of taller dignitaries to reach the dais. The Dwarf had his own peculiarly elaborate courtesies, but tended to ignore the customs of Men and Elves when it suited him. He had placed himself and his party formally at King Elessar's service at the beginning of the reception, but since then had fallen back into casual familiarity. And his usual jocularity had only increased as the evening wore on and the ale flowed freely.

Legolas had caught glimpses of him now and then, from his position on the dais, as Gimli moved through the crowd, drinking and laughing with his fellow Dwarves and with the Men from Rohan and Dol Amroth, and even once exchanging pleasantries with the chief ambassador from Umbar. As lord of Aglarond and ally to Éomer king of Rohan, Gimli was here as a guest on equal footing with the foreign diplomats and hence excused from standing in attendance at Aragorn's side with Legolas, Faramir, and Imrahil. He was also, Legolas noted with some envy, dressed in his usual leather tunic and leggings. Apparently the task of representing all Dwarves in Middle-earth did not require formal robes.

Gimli bowed graciously to Arwen, who inclined her head with a smile. Then the Dwarf straightened and grinned. "Aragorn, Legolas, look who I've found!" And with a gesture he drew forward two smaller figures from the crowd behind him.

"Merry! Pippin!" Aragorn laughed and stood, extending his hands toward the two Hobbits who bowed formally. They were resplendent in the livery of Rohan and Gondor, respectively, though they lacked the boots that would usually have completed their outfits.

"Where have you been?" the king asked. "I was expecting my esquire to attend me during the reception."

"I _did_ present my service to the head of your guard, my lord," Pippin said defensively. "But he said that we could refresh ourselves before being formally introduced, and then with all the hustle and bustle of the banquet . . ."

"It's all a bit overwhelming," Merry put in. "We didn't want to put ourselves forward, with all these important people about . . ."

"Nonsense," Gimli rumbled. "They just got distracted by all the free food. They were in the far corner with the strawberry tarts when I found them."

The others laughed, and Merry blushed, but Pippin only grinned cheekily as he wiped a smudge of jam from his chin. "You have an excellent kitchen staff, Strider," he said.

Aragorn smiled. "We shall pass your compliments on to them," he said. "For now, though, you two must sit with me and tell me all about the happenings of the Shire. It has been far too long since last I visited."

Pippin hopped up easily to sit on the step of the dais. "Well," he began, "you know that Sam was elected Mayor, and Rosie is going to name the baby after me if it's a boy . . ."

"They already named the last one after me," Merry broke in.

A knot was forming in Legolas' stomach. These Hobbits were heroes of the War of the Ring, and as deserving of honor, to his mind, as Frodo or Samwise or Aragorn. It wasn't right that they should be sitting at the king's feet.

"Your pardon, King Elessar, Lady Undómiel" he murmured, moving toward the edge of the dais. "I will find some chairs for your guests."

"Oh, no, you needn't bother, Legolas," Merry said.

Legolas was negotiating the edge of the dais. Normally he would have leaped it easily. But the Morgoth-begotten robes were made for stately walks over smooth floors or for sitting regally upon carved thrones. They did not handle steps well. "It is no bother, Master Meriadoc," Legolas said when he had successfully made the awkward hop to the ground. Perhaps he could burn the robe as well.

Pippin looked around. "Legolas!" he said, as if noticing the Elf for the first time. "You look wonderful!"

"Thank you," Legolas replied. "As do you, Master Peregrin."

Pippin was scrutinizing him closely. "That robe really brings out the blue of your eyes."

Gimli snorted and covered his mouth with his hand. Legolas smiled thinly. "So I've been told," he said, and made his escape.

He had to lift the hem up to keep from tripping on it as he moved swiftly through the crowded hall to the side entrance. Both his father and Lord Elrond seemed able to glide about in these floor length robes with effortless grace, but Legolas had never mastered that trick.

He passed between the guards at the door and paused in the stone corridor beyond, gathering his thoughts. It was a relief to escape the packed heat and noise of the great hall. He walked silently along the dimly lit passage, holding his robes up with one hand and trailing the other along the cool stone of the wall. There should be some low chairs in the king's storage cellars. He would simply ask a servant to go down and find two for the Hobbits. No, he would do better to make that three, so as to have one more for Gimli. The Dwarf was not wearing his axes in deference to the law forbidding weapons in the presence of the king, but his habitual chain mail was heavy and made standing for long periods uncomfortable.

Legolas paused at the juncture with the large entrance hall. The vast double doors were standing open in welcome to the cool night air, and he could hear the lilting tones of Elven song drifting upon the mild breeze. He walked forward slowly past the guards to stand at the edge of the stone flagged entrance way. The king's courtyard was largely empty, as most of the guests were packed into the banquet hall, but the Elves of Ithilien had fled the noise and smoke of the mortals' celebration and were gathered here upon the verdant spring grass. A gentle radiance fell about them as they sat upon the lawn and their song lifted up to the star strewn heavens.

A strange sorrow filled Legolas as he watched them. He supposed he ought to be angry, for they were supposed to be mingling with the other guests and doing their part to foster understanding with the other races of Middle-earth. But in truth he could not blame them for seeking refuge from the constant press of mortals. It was only his own duty as their lord and as friend to Aragorn that kept him from joining them.

He was about to turn away, to go back inside, when his eye caught the glint of the distant Anduin and he stopped, stricken. It was folly, he knew, and a distant part of his mind urged him to turn away, to close his eyes, to do _anything_ but what he did do, which was stand motionless and captive to the flash of water rippled silver in the moonlight.

The old ache closed vise-like over his heart, and he trembled in its power. He could not see the Sea from Minas Tirith, and for that he was grateful, for truly he could not have withstood it now. Even so the pulse of it thrummed through him, and he attended its call as though to the voice of a lover. The song of the Sea seemed clearer to him now than the ancient tone of the stars overhead; it was more real and more present than the voices of the Elves upon the lawn or the mortals in the hall. The world in which he stood seemed suddenly flat, empty and meaningless as a child's sketch upon a wall. The complexity of the Sea's call resonated within him until all his heart and mind was filled and he felt himself drowning in it.

Legolas clenched his hands suddenly and focused on the distant sensation of his nails digging into his palms, forcing his mind to pull back from that infinite longing. The wrench away from the Sea's call was physically painful, and he shuddered in its wake. But slowly he regained control. He heard again the sigh of the night breeze, the laughter of the Elves; he pulled his gaze away from the river's gleam and focused upon the dark stone wall of the courtyard. His heart beat in rhythm with the Sea: that would never change. But his mind was his own again.

He released a shaky breath and unclenched his fingers. "Not yet," he whispered aloud, though too softly for any to hear him. Not yet. Aragorn still lived, would live for many years to come. And the Hobbits, and Gimli, held him here as well. He had bound himself to them, and would not forsake that bond. But the pain of it threatened to tear him apart.

It was getting worse. In years past the mere glimpse of the river would not have affected him as it did now. But now he could not look upon it without seeing also what it meant, the endless flow of the current, rushing westward to the Sea. He felt the storm surge of the Valar's call in the very pulse of his heart, in the fiber of his soul. And it was getting harder and harder to resist.

It was then, as he gazed absently at the distant wall, gathering the strength to walk back inside, that he saw the shadow move. Legolas narrowed his eyes, half thinking it was a flicker of torchlight, or a new trick of the Sea longing. But no, it came again. His keen eyes saw clearly the slender figure, dressed in black, as it moved along the path by the outer wall toward the gate of the seventh circle.

Legolas immediately set out in pursuit, pausing only to lift the hem of his robe and draw the dagger from his right boot. Weapons were forbidden by law within the king's citadel, but that was no guarantee that the skulking figure was unarmed. And although Legolas himself might forgo his usual bow and knives for the sake of appearances, he had no qualms about the knife customarily concealed within his boot, nor the smaller blades he carried hidden in his vambraces. The habits of long centuries under the Shadow were not easily forgotten, and no Elf of Mirkwood ever went unarmed.

But the flowing robe hampered his movement, and though he finally hiked the thing up to his knees and ran lightly over the graveled path, by the time he reached the gate the figure had vanished. Legolas stopped at the gate and dropped the hem of his robe with a frustrated sigh. The seventh circle was packed with the caravans of merchants come to cater to the Conference guests. Servants and guards milled through the narrow street, and the stone flags were trampled with the mud of their passing. There was no sign at all of the figure in black.

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"A surprise party! What a wonderful idea!" Pippin cried.

"Yes," Gimli said with pride, ignoring the way Aragorn was rolling his eyes – unbecoming a monarch, really.

"We'll make the cake!" Pippin continued excitedly.

"We will?" Merry said.

"Yes! Legolas has never had a proper birthday cake from the Shire. And you don't want the kitchen staff bothering with it – they've got enough to do, with the banquets and all, and besides they'd be talking about it and pretty soon Legolas would find out . . . when is the party?"

"Tomorrow night," Gimli said. "In the Council room."

"The Council room?" Aragorn began. "When did we –"

"And I've already made arrangements for the decorations," Gimli continued. "Imrahil is making the banners, and I'm providing the fireworks, and Éomer –"  
"Wait a minute," Aragorn said, holding up a hand. "Fireworks? I thought this was going to be a small party! And Imrahil, banners?"

Imrahil flushed. "It was my daughter's idea, lord. Lothíriel seemed quite taken with Legolas when she met him at the coronation ceremony."

Faramir nodded. "Éowyn has been planning the design with her for months. A motif combining symbols from all the western sovereignties, I believe, on a green background . . ."

The others were looking at him. Faramir blushed. "Green, you know, for . . . green . . . leaf . . ." he trailed off.

"It's a lovely banner," Arwen said.

Aragorn looked at her. "You've seen it?"

"Of course. Lothíriel and Éowyn consulted me about it when we were planning the guest list."

"The Lady Undómiel is something of an expert in banner design, as you know, my lord." Imrahil said.

Aragorn rubbed his temples. "Has everyone known about this party but me?"

"Well, you've been planning the Conference," Gimli said bracingly. "And doing a fine job of it I might add. You can't be bothered with little things like this. You just show up when I tell you to, and let us handle the details. Everything will be fine."

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Everything was completely wrong. Merry could see it going wrong, could see the catastrophe building before his eyes, but he was powerless to stop it. Though he did try.

"Pippin," he said as patiently as he could, "you cannot put raisins in a birthday cake."

"Of course you can," the Took said stubbornly. "You can't have a carrot cake without raisins."

"We aren't making a carrot cake! Whoever heard of carrot cake for a birthday?"

"And nuts. We'll need lots of nuts." Pippin was pulling the lid off another barrel. The storeroom floor was littered with bags of ingredients already selected from the rows of stacked bins and containers.

"No nuts! This is a white cake. It's going to be light and airy."

"Aha!" Pippin cried, digging into the barrel. "I found the flour."

"With spun sugar frosting," Merry continued, checking his list.

"Lemons! Merry, look! I didn't know Gondor had lemons, did you?"

Merry put down his list to stare at the small yellow fruit that Pippin held. "It must be a special import. Put it down, Pippin. They'll want it for the banquets."

Pippin was already transferring several of the lemons to a small sack. "They'll never miss them. We'll just need some more sugar to cut the sour taste, and then we're done."

Merry shook his head, but began gathering together the supplies. "I thought you wanted carrot cake," he said.

"Of course," Pippin said, tucking the lemons into a pocket of his jacket for safekeeping. "We'll have three layers. One white, one carrot, one lemon."

Merry stopped. "Pippin, just how big is this cake going to be?"

"Well," Pippin said thoughtfully, "it's got to be bigger than Bilbo's was."

"What?" Merry straightened in alarm. "Bilbo's was for the whole Shire! This is just a small party!"

"But it has to be big enough to hold all the candles."

"Candles?"

"Bilbo's had one hundred and eleven. Legolas is going to need a lot more than that." Pippin paused. "Merry, just how old is Legolas anyway?"

"I don't know. You should ask Strider. Or Gimli."

Pippin shrugged. "In any case we'll need a lot. Better see if we can get into the porter's storeroom while the cake is –"

"Hsh!" Merry held up a hand. "What's that?"

Both Hobbits froze, listening intently. Someone was moving in the corridor outside. Merry could hear the click of boot heels over the stone flags growing louder. They were coming toward the door.

Merry was suddenly acutely aware of the wealth of plundered ingredients scattered over the floor about them, a theft that would be perfectly understandable to the king, he was sure, but perhaps more difficult to explain to the Head Kitchener. He looked at Pippin, who stared back with wide eyes.

"I thought you said it was safe," Merry whispered.

"It is! This is just a back-up storage room. No one comes in here!"

Merry swallowed. Pippin had been alone in Minas Tirith for several days during the War. The imminent threat of attack and almost certain death had given him ample opportunity to scope out the citadel kitchens. If he said that this was a safe place to make the cake, it was. Or it ought to be.

The footsteps stopped. The Hobbits held their breath. There was a clink of metal outside the door. Then Merry was moving. "Hide!" he hissed to Pippin, gesturing at the scattered sacks of flour, sugar, the basket of eggs, the carrots. And before he could think further his feet carried him in a jerky movement to the door. He had faced the Witch King of Angmar. He could handle one kitchen servant.

Merry slipped through the door and pulled it firmly closed behind him. He looked up, and fell back against it as the strength drained from his legs. An Easterling stood before him.

The Man towered over Merry, and the great swath of black silk that covered his head and hid his features made him all the more ominous. Merry looked up into grey eyes lined in kohl and swallowed hard. The Easterling was standing several paces from him, clearly having backed up when the door opened. Now he took a slow step forward. Merry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The Easterling took another step, and tripped on the hem of his long black robes. He staggered and caught himself on the doorframe with an inarticulate cry. "Eaah!" There was a sharp clink of metal as his keys fell to the floor.

Merry dodged the stumbling feet and backed into the corridor. He shot a quick glance to either side. It was empty. There was no one he could call for help. The Easterling was fumbling for the keys, but his groping fingers struck them too hard and sent them skittering across the smooth floor. "Oh to Mordor with it!" the Man cried, and pulled the black veil from his face. Merry found himself staring into a smooth young face with the beginnings of stubble about the chin, dark hair plastered with sweat to the forehead, grey eyes tearing with frustration and the effects of the smeared kohl . . . grey eyes?

The larder door opened and Pippin slipped out, pulling it sharply closed behind him. "Leave off!" he shouted fiercely. He was brandishing something long and metallic. "I'm a guard of the citadel, and you have no cause to be harassing me and my friend! I'll report you to King Elessar! I'll –"

He stopped. He stared at the unmasked Easterling. He looked at Merry. He looked back at the Easterling. "Bergil?" he said.

"Pippin?" the Man said. "What are you doing here? And what are you doing with that?"

Pippin looked at the implement he held. "First thing that came to hand," he said.

Merry's head was spinning. He had come forth to do battle with irate kitchen staff, only to be faced with a hidden agent of the Enemy, who was now revealed as a gawky boy hardly into his 'tweens. And Pippin was standing ready to defend him with an egg whisk.

"Why are you here?" Pippin asked.

"I was hungry. And the Easterlings in the tents only have toasted beetles for snack food."

Merry was now remembering the Witch King with a certain fondness. At least you knew where you stood with the force of ultimate evil in Middle-earth. You knew that you had to fight or die. You weren't asked to cope with egg whisks and toasted beetles.

"But why are you dressed like that? Why are you with the Easterlings at all?"

Bergil drew himself up. "I'm working in disguise."

"Disguise?"

Bergil nodded. "I've infiltrated the Easterlings' camp. There are so many different factions and tribes of them and the Haradrim that no one knows each other, and they usually wear scarves anyway, so I . . ."

Pippin was looking impressed. Merry frowned. It was time he took charge of the conversation. "King Elessar sent you to spy on them? During a peace conference?"

Bergil flushed and bent to retrieve his keys, avoiding Merry's gaze. "Erm…"

"That doesn't seem at all like him," Merry continued. "And it's rather inhospitable, isn't it? Spying on the guests?"

"Well . . ." Bergil trailed off. The youth's face had darkened to a near violet.

Merry folded his arms across his chest. "He didn't send you to spy on them, did he."

"No," Bergil admitted. "Not as such. But . . ."

"Not as such? You're dressed in their clothes, hiding in their camp, except now, when you're hiding in the king's kitchens, and you're not spying as such?"

"But it's for his own good!" Bergil burst out. Merry raised an eyebrow. "It is!" the young man insisted. "We have all these people, right in the city, who used to be with the Enemy! How do we know that they aren't plotting something? What if they try to attack from inside the gates? What if they try to assassinate Elessar?"

Merry exchanged a look with Pippin. "Most of the camps are outside the city wall," Pippin offered. "It's only during the conference meetings that they come inside."

"And the banquets, and the ceremonial cup sharing, and the breaks between meetings," Bergil said. "And it only takes one of them to get past the guard for just a moment and attack the king."

"But you're a guard of the city," Pippin said. "You're supposed to be protecting him."

"I am," Bergil insisted. "I'm right in the encampments. If something is being planned I'm much more likely to hear about it there than standing behind the throne. And if I get caught there won't be any harm to the conference, because no one knows what I'm doing. I'm on leave from the guard. King Elessar can't be held accountable."

Merry was wavering. It seemed reasonable, and yet . . . he looked again at Bergil , red-faced and stiff with resolve, his robes tangled about his feet. He rather wished that someone more adept at subterfuge were doing this.

At that moment a shadow moved in the flickering torchlight over the corridor wall. Someone was coming. Pippin gave Bergil a push. "Go!" he said. "You can't be seen like that!"

Bergil hesitated, struggling to wrap his veil again. "You won't tell –"

"No!" Pippin said. "Now go!"

Bergil fled, running with one hand holding up his robes and the other clutching at his headgear. At that moment a figure came around the bend of the corridor, and Merry's heart sank. No sound of footsteps had warned them of their danger, and now he saw why. Legolas was coming toward them.

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A/N: A word about the cake. I wanted chocolate. My muses wanted chocolate. The Hobbits ESPECIALLY wanted chocolate. But Legolas muse said that chocolate was unknown in Europe before Hernán Cortés encountered the Aztec Empire in the year 1519 of the Sixth Age, approximately. So they didn't have it in Middle-earth. But if anyone can prove him wrong, please let me know. In the meantime, I for one like carrot cake.

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**Coming in 2013:** _The Gloaming_, an original novel by Lamiel. In a world ruled by monsters, you have to be a monster to survive.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Legolas was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this Unification Conference. Indeed, after a morning enclosed in a stuffy room with the varied and unwashed representatives of Middle-earth Legolas was beginning to question the need for Unification with Men at all.

Reactions to him and his people ranged from curiosity to suspicion, with more than one delegate ignoring the proceedings entirely and simply gawking openly at them. One Corsair captain, bolder than the others, managed to trap Legolas in a corner during the mid-morning break. It took some time before Legolas was able to convince him that the Elves had no desire to trade directly with Umbar. _Indeed,_ Legolas thought wryly, _a closer tie to the Sea is the last thing we need._ The Man smelled as if he had come directly from months on ship, and a very small and very cramped ship at that, with no bathing facilities. As Legolas leaned slightly back, trying to breathe shallowly without being too obvious about it, he saw a veiled figure in black robes slip past the door of the conference room.

Instantly Legolas moved to follow. He bowed graciously to the Corsair captain, suggested politely that he take up the matter of trade with Faramir, and was past him and half-way to the door while the Man was still blinking in shock behind him.

He reached the hall just in time to see a door half way down the corridor swing shut with an audible click. He tried the handle, but it was locked securely. Legolas stood a moment before the door, thinking. This same figure in black had eluded him twice now. The glimpses he had caught of robe and veil told him that it was surely one of the foreign Men, likely from one of the Easterling factions. One who had left his party to wander the citadel alone, one who had gained access to the locked doors of the king's sanctuary. He must be stopped. But if Legolas called the guard to search the palace it would surely disrupt the Conference. An open arrest of one of the foreign ambassadors would destroy any hope for peace forged at this gathering.

But if Aragorn were in danger . . . no. Legolas scanned the corridor, getting his bearings. He was in the outer part of the citadel on the south side. Large windows opened to the spring air, allowing sunlight and the fragrance of blossoming flowers to drift through the stone keep. The location of the conference meetings had been set in this, the most open part of the king's house, in deference to the Elves' dislike of solidly enclosing walls. The locked door led only to an interior staircase going down into the kitchens and the king's storerooms. There was nothing of value down there, and it was nowhere near Aragorn's personal chambers. Legolas could stop him before he was ever a threat to the king, and perhaps salvage the peace conference as well.

With a careful look up and down the corridor to ensure that none observed, Legolas drew the dagger again from his boot. The lock was well made and strong, and it took some minutes of careful manipulation before Legolas was able to snap it with his dagger. The delay grated upon him – with every moment the Man was moving deeper into the citadel. But finally the door gave way and Legolas pulled it cautiously open.

The stairwell was empty. A few flickering torches lined its length as it went straight down to the passage below. Legolas closed the door behind him and stood a moment in the silence, listening carefully. Distantly he caught the clink of metal, and a low murmur of voices.

Legolas took a step toward the stairs, and then stopped. Despite his reasoned and extensive arguments the night before, Irluin had calmly presented him with still more flowing robes complete with a newly polished circlet that morning. The steely glint of the advisor's eye, coupled with his two thousand years experience at unarmed combat, had convinced Legolas to don the hated things without objection. But now he had need to move swiftly and silently over the stairs, and possibly do battle with the Man below. Even Irluin could not deny the logic of Legolas' position.

Gleefully Legolas pulled off the heavy robe and folded it neatly in the corner. He set the circlet down on top of it with a slight flourish and smiled. He felt incredibly light, as though he could leap up and simply fly down the corridor. He spun easily on one foot as he abandoned the small pile. Then, clad only in his thin undertunic and leggings, Legolas ran down the stairs and moved into the passage.

He slowed as he approached the murmuring voices. They echoed slightly in the stone passage, overlapping one another so that he could not make out the words. Legolas crept silently along the wall, his knife light in his hand. But as he approached the bend of the corridor the voices stopped, and then he heard the heavy tread of a Man running clumsily away.

Legolas darted around the turn, ready to attack, and froze. The corridor was empty, save for two Hobbits standing in the center. They stared up at him with huge eyes. Legolas approached cautiously, scanning the hall for signs of the intruder.

"Where did he go?" he demanded.

"Good morning, Legolas," Merry said. "So nice to see you again, too. Lovely day, isn't it?"

Legolas paused, refocused on the small beings before him. Pippin was holding something long and silver. He flushed when Legolas looked at him and quickly hid it behind his back.

Legolas decided to ignore this for the moment. "A Man came this way. Where is he?"

"Um, a Man?" Pippin said. "You mean . . . one from the Conference?"

"Yes," Legolas said impatiently. "An Easterling, from his dress. He was just here. Did you not see him?"

"I . . . he . . . that is, I . . ." Pippin stuttered under the Elf's intent gaze.

Legolas did not have time for this. The intruder could even now be making a strike against Aragorn – poisoning his food, perhaps. He turned to try the adjacent door. But before his fingers touched the knob Merry darted around him and stood in the way. The Hobbit stood with his back against the door, arms braced at the sides. "Not that way! I mean," Merry hesitated as Legolas stared at him, "he didn't go in there. There's nothing in there. Nothing at all."

"Then you did see him! Where is he?"

"I . . ."

Pippin came to lean casually against the door next to Merry. "He was lost."

"Lost?" Legolas narrowed his eyes.

"Yes. He said he was looking for the, um, the Council room. He just left."

"The Council room." Legolas breathed. "Thank you, Master Took." He spun on his heel, sheathed his knife, and ran.

The two Hobbits watched him go. "The Council room? What did you tell him that for, Pippin?" Merry asked.

Pippin shrugged. "It was the first place I thought of."

Merry sighed. "Well, I just hope Bergil has enough sense to stay clear of it."

"He should. I don't think any of the Easterlings were meeting there, were they?"

"I don't know." Merry opened the storeroom door and the two Hobbits went inside. "There is one good thing, though."

"What?"

"Legolas is on the alert for any suspicious activity now. If anyone else tries anything he'll catch them." Merry smiled. "Really it's for the best."

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Legolas approached the Council chambers cautiously. It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it. The room had not been scheduled for use in the Conference meetings that afternoon. But surely it would not be left empty while every other chamber in the Citadel was filled with dignitaries. No, it was far more likely that the king and his Council intended to meet in secret there. Somehow the Easterling had deduced this and was planning an ambush. Legolas simply had to get there first.

The door was unguarded. The Council door was _never_ left unguarded. Legolas crept forward cat-quiet, then ducked and rolled easily around the frame, coming swiftly to his feet with his back against the wall and knife raised to throw.

The room was empty. Legolas crouched to look under the heavy council table. Nothing. He swiftly investigated the rich hanging tapestries, the huge cold fireplace; he leaped up to look in the small windows cut high in the thick stone walls. But he already knew that he would find nothing. The dry air had the musty feel of a room that has been undisturbed for many long hours. The Easterling was most likely occupied in somehow distracting the guard. He would return soon, of that Legolas was certain. All he need do was wait.

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Gimli was in excellent spirits. He had negotiated that morning with Éomer's representative to renew the Dwarves' custodianship of the Glittering Caves in Helm's Deep. And in the Hobbits' absence he had arranged to act as envoy from Rohan to the Shire. Men were forbidden to enter the Shire by order of Elessar, but there was no such restriction on Dwarves or Elves. And he had no doubt that Legolas would be willing to act as ambassador on behalf of Gondor. If they left immediately after the Conference ended they would arrive in time to see Sam's new baby.

And speaking of Legolas . . . Gimli's smile broadened as he approached the Council room. The customary guard had been relieved on order of Queen Arwen herself, at Gimli's suggestion. Imrahil would be arriving shortly with the banners, but Gimli had some arrangements to make himself first. He hefted his pack higher on his shoulder and strode into the chamber.

There was a blur of movement behind him, and then something struck Gimli heavily between the shoulder blades. He grunted in surprise and fell forward, landing hard on his hands and knees with the thing on top of him. "Gerroff!" he bellowed, and jerked an elbow back hard. But the assailant avoided his blow and the next instant he was rolled onto his back, pinned flat with something sharp at his throat.

He found himself staring up into a pair of wide blue eyes framed by a cascade of long blond hair. He froze. For a long moment no one moved. Then Legolas said in a small voice, "Gimli?"

"Legolas!" Gimli struggled to sit up. The Elf was kneeling on his chest. Legolas rolled off him and onto his feet in one smooth movement. He reached down to give the Dwarf a hand up, but Gimli knocked his hand away and gained his feet on his own power. "What in Mahal's name are you doing? Can't a Dwarf walk in peace anymore?"

Legolas glanced up at the rafter from which he had dropped onto his friend. "I . . ."

"And why are you in here anyway?" Gimli demanded, straightening his tunic and using the advantage of the Elf's distraction to nudge his dropped pack to the edge of the door, hoping to avoid notice. "Don't you have a Conference to attend?"

Legolas straightened and pushed back his disheveled hair. "I was . . . merely taking a breath of air."

Gimli looked around the musty chamber, the cold fireplace, the thick stone walls and dark tapestries. "In here?"

"Yes."

"And you were up on the rafters . . .?"

"Dusting."

"Dusting?"

"Yes," Legolas said with dignity. "It is very dusty up there."

"I don't doubt it." Gimli looked his friend up and down, and felt a corner of his mouth twitch. The Elf was clad in only a thin grey undertunic and leggings, both of which were liberally streaked with dust and cobwebs.

"Well," Legolas said when the silence had stretched long enough. "I am sorry, Gimli. You caught me by surprise, but I trust no injury was done. You can go on your way."

"Me?" Gimli said in surprise. "I've only just arrived. But don't let me keep you. You'll be wanting to get back to the Conference now."

"Not at all. Irluin can manage without me for a time. But surely you have business to attend to."

Gimli gritted his teeth. Yes, he had business to attend to. But that business rather depended on the absence of a particular Elf. He folded his arms across his chest. "Nothing pressing."

"No?" Legolas shot a quick glance into the corridor, and then faced the Dwarf with a strained smile. "That's fortunate."

"Yes." Gimli rocked on his feet. "It is nice here, isn't it?"

Legolas was looking into the corridor again. "Hm? Oh, nice, yes."

"Quiet. Peaceful, away from all that chatter."

The Elf bent down quickly to adjust his boot. Gimli continued calculatingly. "Good solid stone here. It really blocks out the noise from outside, doesn't it? Birds, wind, trees . . . I bet even you can't hear them in here."

Legolas was looking slightly strained now. It was a small thing, a tightening of the Elf's normally impassive features, a faint compression of the fine lips and narrowing of the eyes. Few mortals would have noticed. But Gimli did.

"Keeps the sun out too. Cool and dark. Almost like a cave, really. You remember the caves of Aglarond, Legolas?"

The Elf nodded. He was rather paler than usual.

Gimli hid a smile. Victory was nearly within his grasp. "I was thinking that we might go to visit the Shire after the Conference. And we could stop by the Lonely Mountain again too. It's been far too long since we were back there, hasn't it?"

"Hm."

"At least seven years. I'm told that they've opened a whole new lower level for mining. We should go and see it. Untold wealth in minerals, they'll have, hidden away in the dark, revealed only to the flicker of torchlight deep, deep beneath the earth . . ."

Legolas swallowed.

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The day had started off so well, Aragorn thought wistfully. He had half a dozen counselors tying themselves in knots with worry over the details of the Conference, but the actual meetings were going smoothly. Well, there had been a bit of a snag when the chief ambassador from Harad had abruptly demanded that his tents be moved farther from those of the Corsairs, because, he said, the stench of fish was unbearable, and then the head Corsair had made that remark about the Haradrim and their horses, which the captain from Rohan had misinterpreted, but the delegates had yet to declare war on each other. Aragorn took this as a good sign.

He had retreated to his study for just a moment between meetings to have a soothing smoke. He had just gotten the pipe going, and was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up and starting to relax, when the door burst open and an irate Dwarf charged into the room, waving his arms about and shouting at him. Apparently he had begun his tirade while still in the corridor outside, and was in mid-sentence when he gained the room. "— and we can't hang the banners while he's in there, to say nothing of the fireworks! Aragorn, _do something!_"

Aragorn sat up so quickly he dropped his pipe and knocked a cascade of hot ash over himself. He swore and brushed the burning embers from his tunic before looking up. The Dwarf was pacing the cluttered study and chewing the edge of his mustache. "Gimli," Aragorn began.

"I mean, what does he want to be in there for anyway? I thought the main problem would be to coax him to come when we were ready for the surprise, but trust an Elf to be contrary. A plague on him and his whole bloody stiff-necked colony!"

"_Gimli!_" Aragorn bellowed. "A plague on who? What are you talking about?"

"Legolas!" Gimli shouted back. "Weren't you listening? He's barricaded himself in the Council room!"

Aragorn sighed. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know! He won't tell me anything. But he won't leave, either. I nearly had him convinced, but then he pushed me outside and closed the door. How are we supposed to decorate with him in there?"

"Well, perhaps you could do it someplace else. Maybe the courtyard, or the library . . ." Aragorn trailed off. Gimli had stopped and was staring at him. His eyes were very bright.

"Aragorn!"

Aragorn found himself tensing as though for an attack. "What?"

"Brilliant! It's perfect!"

"What are you . . ." Aragorn stopped. Saw the glint in Gimli's eyes. "No," he said.

"Yes! We'll have it in your chambers!"

"Oh no. No, no, no."

"Aragorn, you are a genius! Legolas will never suspect, and we'll have all the privacy we need. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"Those are my _private_ chambers. _Arwen's_chambers. You can't –"

"I just need to tell the others. Imrahil can tell the Elves, and Lothíriel will make sure the Rohirrim know. Thank you, Aragorn! You've solved everything!"

"But –"

Gimli paused at the doorway and looked at him seriously. "Just think, Aragorn. Legolas will be so honored that you opened your home for his begetting day party. You are a true friend."

With that the Dwarf vanished through the door. Aragorn sank back into his chair in defeat. He looked at his empty pipe and the ash scattered over the floor. He thought about Arwen's reaction when Gimli showed up to measure the rooms for banner hanging. _And today was going so well._

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Dusk came slowly over the city. Most of the Conference delegates were heading out to the tents scattered over the fields around the city wall. The higher ranking attendees were making plans for various small receptions to celebrate the peaceful conclusion of the second day's meetings. There was a general feeling of tired satisfaction and contentment in the air.

But all was not calm. Bergil stood in the lengthening shadow of the courtyard wall and watched intently as small groups of Dwarves and Men gathered and then broke apart on the lawn. There was an air of suppressed excitement about them. It was unusual enough to see Men from Gondor and Rohan speaking with the Dwarves, much less making plans with them. Every now and then one or another would break away and glance up the high wall of the citadel. They were looking at the king's private balcony.

Bergil frowned. Something was definitely going on. He hesitated. Ordinarily he would head down to join the Easterlings' encampment for the evening. But the Easterlings and Southrons didn't seem to be plotting anything for this evening. Well, it was hard to be sure, because in all honesty they didn't seem to talk much around him. And when they did it was in their own language, which he didn't understand. They seemed friendly, though. At least they usually seemed to be in a good mood when he was nearby. Which was good. He had been concerned that they'd be suspicious, since he always kept his veil on when they usually took theirs off in the tents.

But whatever was going on tonight, it wasn't in the Easterlings' camp. Bergil couldn't imagine that the Rohirrim or Dwarves would have any plots against the king. But all the same, Elessar might want a guard on his balcony tonight. His mind made up, Bergil headed into the citadel. He needed to get to the king's chambers.

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Legolas couldn't understand it. He had spent all day in the Council room, and there had been no sign at all of the intruder. The faint light that filtered through the small windows had slanted up the wall as the day went on, growing slowly more golden and finally fading entirely. Legolas pressed his cheek against the sooty rafter on which he lay. Despite Gimli's earlier words, he _could_ hear the faint song of the trees outside, the sigh of the wind and now the high squeak of bats as they hunted in the twilight. But those sounds were muffled by the thick stone walls.

Pressed against his rafter, Legolas could feel the brush of heavy stone just over his head. He could hardly move without touching the ceiling or wall, and the room was growing steadily darker as evening came. It was growing more cave-like, as Gimli would say. Legolas concentrated on slowing his pounding heart. He breathed slowly and deeply of the musty air. _The walls are not closing in. The walls are not closing in._

But no one was coming, either. Clearly, if there had been a Council meeting scheduled for that evening it was cancelled. And so whatever plot the Easterling had must have been discovered, or changed at the last moment. Legolas was not going to find him here.

His mind made up, Legolas rolled off the rafter and dropped silently to the floor. He was not abandoning his post, he told himself firmly. He was adapting to a change in his opponent's tactics. But that did not change the overwhelming rush of relief that swept over him as he escaped the enclosing walls and ran down the corridor to the main hall. He saw no one as he left the citadel and walked out into the cool night air. The courtyard was nearly empty.

Legolas breathed deeply of the fresh air, turning his face up to the stars and smiling as their slow deep song filled him. He turned, opening his arms to the brush of the night zephyrs. He could see the city stretching away below him, could hear the sounds of Men as they wound their way through the narrow streets, could see the distant flicker of lamps in the tents upon the fields. He deliberately resisted looking toward the river, turning his back to it when the temptation became too great. Instead he looked up at the citadel. He looked toward Aragorn's rooms, which blazed with light. And saw a figure in black upon the king's balcony.

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Against all odds, the cake had turned out very well, Merry thought. The creamy frosting hid the disjointed layers of carrot and lemon and white. To look at it, you would never suspect what hid beneath. And, as Pippin said, the candles added a lot. They'd found a fairly large store of narrow beeswax candles in the porter's cupboards. Pippin had been set on five hundred – a nice round number, he said, and perhaps Legolas would be flattered if they had underestimated his age a bit. But they had lost count somewhere in the three hundreds. And the cake didn't hold much more than that anyway.

Pippin was upset. He had suggested that perhaps they could make some additional cupcakes to hold the leftover candles. But Merry cited the press of time – they had to get to the Council room before Gimli brought Legolas there. And besides, he argued, who could count all the candles anyway?

Legolas could, Pippin said, and Merry had to admit that he had a point there. Gimli had told them about the Elf counting the spears of Éomer's eored, on the plains of Rohan. But it couldn't be helped now. All they could hope was to get the cake through the citadel without being seen.

Which is why the near collision with an Easterling in the front hall upset him so much. Merry nearly dropped his end of the cake platter, and Pippin made a surprisingly graceful side-step to keep the whole thing from sliding to the floor. The Easterling was not so lucky. Upon seeing the Hobbits directly in front of him he tried to make a sharp left turn, but tripped on his robes and crashed heavily to the ground. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.

Merry sighed. "Hello, Bergil," he said.

The Man made to get up, winced visibly even through his veil, and settled for sitting gingerly against the wall. "Hello," he said. He looked at the Hobbits. Looked at the cake they held. "Um," he said.

At that moment there was a tramp of heavy boots behind them. Merry exchanged a frantic look with Pippin. But there was no where to hide. And a moment later Gimli strode into the hall. He rapidly evaluated the scene and focused immediately on priorities.

"There you are!" he shouted at the Hobbits. "Get that cake to Aragorn's room before Legolas sees it! Where is Legolas, anyway? Have you seen him? No," he continued, answering his own question, "you'd better not have. Now go!" He pointed at the stairs, then paused and glanced at the Easterling on the floor. "Him," he said, and gestured toward Bergil. "Is he bothering you? Should I kill him?"

"Uh, no," Pippin said.

"Don't kill him," Merry clarified. Bergil nodded in frantic agreement. He seemed to be having difficulty with the clasp of his veil.

"All right then," Gimli said. "Now go!" He turned and strode off toward the Council room. Merry and Pippin exchanged looks. Then with a shrug Merry got a firmer grip on his end of the platter and headed toward the stairs. Pippin followed, raising up his end to keep the platter even as Merry backed up the stair. The Easterling trailed behind, holding his skirt up around his knees.

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Aragorn's private chambers were packed with a sea of Men, Elves, and Dwarves and draped with a multitude of brightly woven banners. The cake was greeted with hearty cheers from the Men and Dwarves, and the Hobbits were guided carefully through the room to set their burden upon a table near the opened balcony doors. The table was a gift from Éomer king of Rohan: small, polished and delicately carved with the sigil of a horse in full gallop. Arwen watched the placement of the teetering mound of cream and frosting upon it with a thin smile.

Bergil felt intensely uncomfortable. He was hot, the infernal veil was wrapped securely over his mouth and nose and somehow the clasp had become stuck, and he could feel the growing stares from the assembled people, especially the Elves. He had never had much experience with Elves, and didn't feel that this was the best way to begin an acquaintance.

He didn't know quite what was going on here, but it didn't seem immediately dangerous. Still, remembering his earlier determination, he maneuvered through the crowd to the relative quiet of the balcony. He stood near the railing and breathed deeply of the cool night air.

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Gimli ducked and covered his head as he entered the Council room. But no attack was forthcoming. "Legolas?" He scanned the shadowy rafters carefully. Then he made a careful circuit of the dark room. But there was no one there. Gimli stood with his hands on his hips in the empty room and swore softly. He had suspected it before, and this was proof positive. That Elf's sole purpose in existence was to make his life difficult.

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Legolas took the most direct route to counter the threat on Aragorn's balcony. He ran and leaped straight up the citadel wall. It was not as easy as climbing in the trees, but the ancient stone was worn and chipped enough to give handholds to a determined Elf. He climbed swiftly toward the king's windows, a shade of grey and gold against the starlit stone.

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Gimli came out into the courtyard and looked around. There was no sign of Legolas. He growled under his breath. Where else could the Elf be, if he wasn't out under the stars? With a heavy sigh the Dwarf turned back toward the citadel. And his night-sharp eyes caught a glint of movement against the stone wall. He stared.

Legolas was climbing the sheer slope of the citadel wall. He was a good twenty feet above the ground, moving with sure grace up the stone. Perhaps another ten feet above him was the king's balcony. Gimli drew a sharp breath and turned and ran.

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Legolas gained the railing of the balcony and swung himself silently up onto its edge. He crouched there a moment. The Easterling stood not five feet from him, but his back was turned. He was facing the king's chamber, and even as Legolas watched he reached a hand to draw the light draperies aside.

Legolas sprang. He leaped forward and struck the Easterling full in the back. The Man's legs crumpled and together they fell into the brightly lit chamber. Legolas twisted, pulling the Man over and rolling to pin him, his dagger clasped tightly in one hand, when his side struck something hard. He hardly had time to register the blow when there came the sound of splintering of wood and something struck him on the shoulder. Then a cake fell on top of him.

A trained Elven warrior is not easily distracted. Legolas kept his grip on the Easterling beneath him, his blade not wavering from beneath the Man's chin, despite the avalanche of cake and cream that crashed over his head. He could see the Man's wide grey eyes staring up at him through his veil and a mound of dripping frosting. Somewhere a platter clanged against the stone floor.

There was a silence. When nothing else seemed likely to fall on him, Legolas cautiously looked up, blinking through the smears of frosting. He first registered the blaze of light that surrounded him. Then he saw that the room was full of Men. And Elves. And Dwarves. A lot of them. And they were all staring at him.

He looked around. Faramir was there, he saw, and Éowyn, and Imrahil, and Lothíriel, and Merry, and Pippin. And so was Arwen. The Queen had a hand pressed over her mouth, and her shoulders were shaking. The Evenstar was laughing at him.

Then Aragorn came forward through the press of people, grinning broadly. The king reached a hand toward him, but Legolas was not about to release his captive yet. He stayed where he was and brushed a glob of cream from his cheek.

The door crashed open. Gimli came panting into the room, his chest heaving. He'd clearly run up the long flight of stairs to the king's chamber. He looked at Legolas as the Elf pinned his prisoner in a mound of broken cake. Legolas glared back at him, daring the Dwarf to say anything. Gimli's mouth opened and shut in silence. Then he smiled weakly and spread his hands. "Surprise," he said.

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It was, as Arwen said, the sort of thing they would all remember and laugh about later. Although she and the others seemed to have no difficulty laughing about it now. Legolas took this with good grace, as he had been taught, and allowed Bergil to get up from the floor un-impaled. He even took some pleasure in the expression of utter shock on Irluin's face as the advisor stared at his prince, who was now not only free of robe and circlet but also streaked with soot, dust, cobwebs, and a generous amount of cake.

Pippin was disappointed at the loss of a good cake, but Legolas had tasted quite a bit of it, and he assured the Took that it was excellent, particularly the carrot. And there were enough other refreshments to keep even the Hobbits satisfied for the evening. Gradually the crowd began to break up, with many toasts to Legolas' good health and wishes for a happy begetting day. Legolas himself retreated to the balcony with a hand towel, attempting to wipe the last of the frosting from his hair and ears.

Eventually Gimli and Aragorn joined him there. The prince was staring out at the stars. They stood next to him for a moment, breathing the cool air. Then Legolas spoke. "Gimli," he said softly.

"Yes, Legolas?"

"Thank you. For all of this."

Gimli looked triumphantly at Aragorn. "You're welcome, Legolas. Happy begetting day."

Legolas turned toward the Dwarf, his forehead creased in a slight frown. "That part I do not understand. Why do you think that today is my begetting day?"

Gimli froze. "Because it is! He said so!"

"Who said so?"

"I did." Irluin came onto the balcony. He was carrying a folded pile of cloth in his arms. Legolas stared at him. The advisor looked back at him calmly. "You have encouraged us to improve our relationship with Men and Dwarves, my lord. It seemed to me that a celebration of your begetting day was an appropriate way to do this." He pushed the cloth into Legolas' hands. "Your robe, my lord. You seem to have forgotten it by the kitchen stairs. Fortunately the Periain remembered it."

"Yes," Legolas managed to say as Irluin set his circlet on top of the pile. "I must thank them for that."

Aragorn was looking at him curiously. "It is your begetting day, isn't it, Legolas?"

The Elf shrugged. "If Irluin says it is. I do not know, myself, but he has kept the record of the House of Oropher in Mirkwood."

Aragorn turned toward the advisor. "How old is Legolas?"

Irluin gave a distinctly Elvish smile. "The prince is as old as the seventh oak by the gates of Mirkwood's palace." He bowed and retreated back inside.

"What?" Gimli said.

Legolas set his robes down at the edge of the balcony. "An oak tree was planted upon the birth of each son of Thranduil. It grows with us, and marks the passage of our time in Middle-earth." His voice softened as he said this last, and he looked out over the distant fields toward the river; toward the Sea.

Aragorn clasped his shoulder gently. "We are grateful for that time, mellon nin. However long it is, we treasure it."

Legolas turned into the Man's touch, and smiled, but his eyes were dark. "As do I. I would not abandon my home, nor the friends that I love."

There was a pause. Gimli shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the weight of love and grief in the Elf's voice. "Well," he harrumphed, breaking the silence, "it's easy enough to discover Legolas' age, then."

Man and Elf turned toward him. "And how is that, Elvellon?" Legolas inquired.

"Cut down that oak tree. Count the rings, and then we'll know."

Aragorn gave a startled laugh. Legolas stiffened. Gimli swallowed nervously. "I was only," he began.

But Legolas interrupted. "Cut down the tree?" he said slowly. "It is an interesting suggestion, Elvellon. Not something I would have thought of, but then I am not a Dwarf."

"It was only a jest!" Gimli said. "A joke! I didn't mean it!"

"Ah," the Elf said. "A joke. And Dwarves have a unique sense of humor, I have noticed. Ambushing their friends with cake, for instance."

"Now really," Gimli said, taking a step back. "You can't blame me for that. I had nothing to do –"

But Legolas was too quick. Swift as a striking snake he swept a large glob of cake from the arm of his tunic and sprang forward to push it into Gimli's face. The next moment the Dwarf was sputtering as he tried to wipe the cream from his face and beard. Legolas laughed, bright and clear as bells ringing in the spring night. "You are right, Elvellon! That is a good joke! Now, as for my oak tree . . ."

"I didn't mean it! Durin's beard, Elf, I didn't mean it!"

"Ah, very well then. But you must tell me if you change your mind, Gimli, when we return to visit the Lonely Mountain. I would not have you abandon me in a cave and slip away alone to cut down my tree in Mirkwood."

Gimli choked in indignation. With a smile Legolas turned and walked back into the warm room. After a moment his friends followed him. The night breeze ruffled the edge of the discarded robes and swept on down over the fields to the river, toward the Sea.

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The End

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l**Coming in 2013:** _The Gloaming_, an original novel by Lamiel. In a world ruled by monsters, you have to be a monster to survive.


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